


No More Miracles

by Nishka Wolf (NishkaGray)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Death, EVERYTHING HURTS AND NOTHING IS OKAY, Episode: s09e23 Do You Believe in Miracles?, Heavy Angst, M/M, death aftercare triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1680785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NishkaGray/pseuds/Nishka%20Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time it’s too much. Too much to numb it, to push it away, to reason with it. This time there is nothing. Last months dripping cold and darkness, everything crumbling to pieces, all that fear and uncertainty. He’d never been more sure that Dean was done, that Sam wasn’t enough any more, that he’d failed one too many times. And he’d been so angry, so fucking angry that every time Dean fucked up, Sam was the one left feeling like a failure. They had been dancing around each other for weeks and Sam just kept taking all the wrong steps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No More Miracles

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : You may not copy, reproduce, distribute, publish, display, perform, modify, create derivative works, transmit, or in any way exploit any of my content, nor may you distribute any part of this content over any network, including a local area network, sell or offer it for sale, or use such content to construct any kind of database.

It’s different this time. He’d forgotten how much heavier Dean is this way, how utterly unmanageable his body is when no part of Dean is left inside of it. They’ve been curving around each other for so long now, back and forth in their own magnetic field, sometimes pushing, sometimes pulling, but always orbiting; two equal forces, two halves of one whole. He should be used to it by now, the loss. The way the entire world is suddenly off balance, as if the center of gravity has shifted with no warning. This isn’t the first time for either one of them, the dying or the surviving. 

Dean’s head lolls against his shoulder, leaving crimson smears that stick to everything they touch, like hot tar. And Sam is tired. So tired. His arms are trembling from his brother’s weight and he can’t seem to breathe deeply or often enough. The scent of blood is so strong, he can taste copper in the back of his throat. He’s fine with it until he remembers that it’s Dean’s blood he’s smelling. Then the mantra begins again. It’s gonna be ok. He keeps telling himself that, like a five year old, over and over again. It’s an endless cycle of letters in his head, the words have completely lost any and all meaning, but he can’t stop. It has to be ok. Because it’s different this time.

The first time he’d had things to hold on to. He’d had one last night, Dean’s body slick with sweat wrapped around his. A brush of their shoulders. Reassurance. Dean’s last tasteless joke still ringing in his ears. He’d had something solid, painful but warm. 

The last time he’d had a smile and a squeeze of fingers. A hurried kiss in the darkness. The loss had been so large he’d cut it off, removed it, numbed it down to nothing. It had felt like an end of something and maybe a beginning of something else. Painful and crippling. But he managed.

This time it’s too much. Too much to numb it, to push it away, to reason with it. This time there is nothing. Last months dripping cold and darkness, everything crumbling to pieces, all that fear and uncertainty. He’d never been more sure that Dean was done, that Sam wasn’t enough any more, that he’d failed one too many times. And he’d been so angry, so fucking angry that every time Dean fucked up, Sam was the one left feeling like a failure. They had been dancing around each other for weeks and Sam just kept taking all the wrong steps. 

It’s surprising how little it matters whose fault it was, when Dean’s eyes are staring into nothing, the glassy sheen showing no traces of the man Sam could have cheerfully strangled every day for the last six months. How even those large injustices, mistreatments, all those things that kept him furious for days on end, how quickly they become meaningless when Dean’s mouth, smeared in blood, refuses to stay closed. 

Sam’s not thinking straight right now, he knows that, and it’s ok, he doesn’t have to. He lays Dean out on his own bed. Knocks over a stack of towels in the bathroom when reaching for a washcloth. Leaves the water running so long that it burns the flesh of his thumb when he finally pushes the washcloth under the stream. The pain feels good. The steam obscures his reflection in the mirror above the sink and he realizes that this is a good thing too. He doesn’t want to see himself. He is pretty sure that he despises every line of his own face right now, more than he’s ever despised Azazel or Lucifer or even Metatron. 

He has to close Dean’s eyes to wash the blood off. He has to close his mouth so the water doesn’t get in. He doesn’t remember having to do this last time. Soon Dean’s bed is soaked, the tint of blood leaving faint stains over the pillow, the covers. Sam is soaked himself, tears and water and blood. Dean would kill him for the mess he made. Dean who always made his bed in the morning, covers military straight. And that somehow feels even worse. Not that Dean is gone, not the cool and clammy feel of his flesh, the sunken cheeks or the bloodless mouth, not the fact that in a few hours, Sam will have to clean him again. Because he knows what happens with dead bodies, he knows that if he doesn’t manage to keep Dean’s mouth closed now, he’ll have to break his jaw later. He knows that Dean’s body is not done yet with all those after death phenomenons, those last unnecessary insults of a body that can’t fight back any more. But Sam cries softly because he’s made such a goddamned mess of Dean’s bed while trying to clean him up, because he can’t even do this one fucking thing right, even after already having practice at it. 

The wet washcloth goes back in the sink. He can barely see now and he’s breathing through his mouth, short gasping breaths that make him feel lightheaded, like he would fly away at any moment, like he would just shiver apart into nothing. His hands are wet and shaking but he is so careful, so very careful, the needle sinking in and out of Dean’s cool flesh, closing the wound on his chest. Every time his fingers slip, he makes a sound, an animal dying in a trap. But he can do this part. He’s done it so many times, each old scar of Dean’s, even the ones that don’t exist any more, is etched into his memory. He knows exactly where they are, where they should be, remembers the slippery slide of Dean’s blood under his hands. When he’s done his shoulders are screaming in pain, his fingers are cramped and his sleeves stiff with snot he keeps trying to wipe off his mouth. He cleans the needle carefully, places it back in its box. Dean always keeps it all immaculate, so it can be used at a moment’s notice. 

Clothes are next. He tries not to make a mess in Dean’s closet. Picks out things that are soft and well worn, even though Dean won’t feel the softness, won’t feel the warmth. Last time, the hellhounds had shredded his clothes to pieces and Sam had used a knife to the get them off all the way. This time the tear is barely noticeable, a small slit over the heart. It doesn’t even occur to him to cut the shirt off. Instead he struggles with Dean’s unyielding limbs, panting from the effort of forcing them where they don’t want to go, sobbing in frustration. He lifts Dean’s shoulders to pull the new shirt over his head and Dean’s neck bends back, mouth falling open again, a sound ripping out of his throat. Sam cries out and drops him because he’d forgotten, he knows but somehow he’d forgotten that this is something that happens too. And he knows it’s just the leftover air in Dean’s lungs, in his stomach, he knows it’s normal, he knows that worse things are going to happen in a matter of hours, but it scared him and now Dean’s head is leaning to the right at an angle that looks painful and his mouth is open again and Sam can’t even breathe any more, he can’t do anything but make high pitched wounded noises as he tries to adjust Dean’s head back where it was, tries to close his mouth again. 

Then he’s crawling on the bed next to him, pushing his face into the cold neck, gripping his brother’s half dressed body tightly and he wants to scream that this is enough, this is really the best he can do, the most anyone should ever expect from him and that Dean needs to stop now. He needs to stop being dead, stop being cold, he needs to move and hold him and tell him everything is gonna be ok because Sam feels like his mind is breaking, like his chest is splintering, like he’s five years old again and someone needs to fix it, someone needs to take over because he’s not strong enough, not grown up enough to do this. He pushes his face into the hair behind Dean’s ear and it still smells like the shampoo he’d used that morning, before everything had gone horribly, horribly wrong, and why hadn’t Sam done this when his brother was still alive? Why hadn’t he touched Dean’s hair while it was still wet, why hadn’t he rubbed the back of his neck, even in passing? Why hadn’t he hugged him at least once, before the world crumbled around them? He’d held his brothers lifeless body more often than he’d held it when it was warm and welcoming, when Dean would have held him back. And why? Why?

Because Dean had hurt him? Because he’d lied to him? Because Kevin was dead? 

Sam would trade a million lives, his own and Kevin’s and Charlie’s and Jody’s, Sam would trade the light of the world, he would let a million demons and rouge angels posses him if he could just go back to that same morning, just one morning, a few measly moments when Dean’s hair was still damp from the shower and Sam could reach out and touch it. 

He sobs until his head is pounding sickly, until his throat is raw and scraped, until the pain in his chest has grown so hollow that no more tears could be squeezed out, until there is nothing left of him but a shell. It takes him years to convince himself to let go, to stand back up, to lift Dean carefully again and struggle the shirt on over his head. His left side is wet and smeared in blood from Dean’s bed, everything reeks of salt and metal. Fully dressed, mouth and eyes closed, Dean could be sleeping. Sleeping after a hunt gone wrong, the cuts on his face clean, and if Sam squinted, if he looked at him from the corner of his eyes, he can almost see his chest rise and fall. But he can’t stay here. Not in a wet, bloody bed, not on that stained pillow.

Sam picks him up again, carefully, making sure Dean’s neck is supported, his head tucked against Sam’s shoulder. He’s not sure where he’s carrying him until he finds himself in front of the door of his own bedroom. And that suddenly seems like the best place, the only place.


End file.
